More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Brian Hill

BRIAN HILL

2nd Lieut., Durham Light Infantry

 

Salonika in November

UP above the grey hills the wheeling birds are calling,
Round about the cold grey hills in never-resting flight;
Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling,
Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the night.

Round about the grey hills rumbles distant thunder,
Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day,—
Grey guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder,
Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray.

Out among the islands twinkling lights are glowing,
Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the bay;
All along the broken road grey transport waggons going
Up to where the long grey guns roar and crash alway.

Up above the cold grey hills the wheeling birds are crying,
Brother calls to brother, as they pass in restless flight.
Lost souls, dead souls, voices of the dying,
Circle o'er the hills of Greece and wail into the night.